


About a Dress

by Guanin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Agender Character, Agender Sherlock Holmes, Clothing is gender-free, Coming Out, Fluff, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 17:47:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19155904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guanin/pseuds/Guanin
Summary: Sherlock's desire to wear more feminine clothing rose and waned in phases, and it hadn’t struck since John had moved in. Until today, that is, when he could not stand the heat’s onslaught anymore and reached for the lightest, draftiest clothing he owned. Just in time for John to walk in.





	About a Dress

Mrs. Hudson met Sherlock at the foyer when he entered the building, a package in her hands. It was long and wide, a white box with the logo of a couturier engraved in golden ink. Sherlock gasped with excitement upon seeing it. 

“It arrived for you while you were out,” Mrs. Hudson said, smiling with her own enthusiasm. “I took a peek inside. It looks lovely.”

Sherlock had confided in her about his purchase when he made it a month previously. He had been waiting in eager anticipation for it to be tailored perfectly to his body ever since. He had other garments in the same category, but none as luxurious as this one. Mycroft always paid for a tailored suit for Sherlock’s birthday, but Sherlock had decided to switch it up a bit this year. Why not? He’d been yearning to get something like this for ages, and had finally succumbed to the whim. 

“Do you think he’ll like it?” Sherlock asked, glancing upstairs, where John was sure to be, relaxing after a day at the surgery. 

“He better, if he has any taste.” Mrs. Hudson’s face softened, and she placed a comforting hand on his arm. “He reacted well last time. You shouldn’t have anything to worry about. Go on.”

Sherlock clutched the box tighter, nervousness tensing his muscles as he went up the stairs. Mrs. Hudson was right. It had gone well last time, not that it had been any sort of big show like this. John had come home from work to find Sherlock lying on the sofa, arm tossed over his eyes, cringing at the sweat that persisted in emanating from his pores. 

“It’s hot,” he moaned as soon as John stepped in the door. “Bring the fan closer, will you please?”

They really needed to get air conditioning. A fan wasn’t cutting it anymore with the ridiculous summers they got these days. 

“That’s a new one,” John said, sounding bewildered as he moved toward the fan.

Sherlock lowered his arm. 

Oh, right. He had meant to change before John arrived, but why should he? He was in his own flat wearing his own clothes, and he had put this off for far too long. 

“It’s hot,” Sherlock repeated, emphasizing the word to cover the sudden nerves itching under his skin. 

He grabbed the hem of his dress and tugged it down a sliver. It was more of a slip, really. Soft, loose cotton in pale blue. Sleeveless and short. It had been designed for a smaller person, so the skirt stopped a few inches above his knees. He had a few in his wardrobe, but hadn’t worn one since John had moved in. His desire to wear more feminine clothing rose and waned in phases, and it hadn’t struck since John had moved in. Until today, that is, when he could not stand the heat’s onslaught anymore and reached for the lightest, draftiest clothing he owned. 

“I’ve never seen you wear this before,” John said, bringing the fan closer to the sofa.

What did that wrinkling in his brow mean? His tone was probing, curious, but also perplexed, unsure of what Sherlock dressing like this meant.

“It’s not new,” Sherlock said, sitting up. This felt like the sort of thing he should be sitting up for. He gripped the hem of his dress, tugging as far down as it would go, which wasn’t much. “You just haven’t seen me in it before. It’s the most comfortable thing to wear at this temperature.”

“It does look like it,” John said, peering at the dress before stepping forward and leaning down to press a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek, his usual greeting. “Do we have any food? I’m starving.”

John moved off to the kitchen. Sherlock gaped after him. That was it? No “how long have you worn women’s clothes”? No “is this going to be a regular thing now”? No “what does this mean for your gender”? Nothing more than a startled frown and a befuddled pause?

“Sherlock, how many times must I tell you not to put body parts in the microwave? We’re gong to get ill.”

And now they had moved on to the same, tired row about Sherlock’s research materials. John really wasn’t going to freak out? A massive grin took over Sherlock’s face and he hopped to his feet with a cheery jaunt, barely keeping from squeeing out loud.

Neither of them had mentioned that incident since, treating it like nothing extraordinary, yet Sherlock had begun to worry that John was just ignoring something that he didn’t like as the path of least resistance. But that didn’t make any sense. John always made his complaints loud and clear, even when he thought that Sherlock wasn’t listening. There was nothing except for the anxious machinations of Sherlock’s own mind to indicate that John’s wasn’t okay with all of Sherlock’s garment choices. Yet he couldn’t stop his palms from sweating or his gut from pinching as he entered their flat, box in hand. John sat in his armchair, reading a novel, cup of tea on a tiny table at his right. He looked up at the sound of the door, smiling when he saw Sherlock. 

“Afternoon,” he said, putting the book on his lap. “What’s that? Did you go shopping?”

“Not today. I bought this a while ago, but they only delivered it today.”

Sherlock leaned down and kissed John on the cheek, nuzzling him for a second, box clutched in his arms.

“Are you okay?” John asked, brow wrinkling. “You look nervous.”

Crap.

“Nervous? No, I’m not nervous. It’s just… Well, let me just show you what I got.”

Fingers trembling slightly, Sherlock placed the box on the table and opened it up. Pushing aside the crisp, wrapping paper, he pulled out the gown and held it aloft. He grinned in joy at the gorgeous sapphire fabric even as nerves fluttered in his belly. He forced himself to turn to John, whose eyes had widened in amazement at the revelation. 

“Oh,” he murmured.

Oh? What did he mean by “oh”?

“Do you like it?” Sherlock asked, hating how his voice shook at the last syllable. 

John blinked at him, mouth open, but no sound was coming out. Sherlock drew the dress back, almost clutching it to himself, only stopping because it would wrinkle the fabric. Then John smiled, a light-hearted laugh bubbling in his throat. Sherlock froze.

“I was wondering if we were ever going to talk about that,” John said. “It’s okay. Please stop looking so scared. Shit, I didn’t mean to worry you like this.”

John stepped forward and cradled Sherlock’s face, tugging him down for the gentlest of forehead touches. John wasn’t upset. Not at all. He looked happy. Nothing in his expression was forced or dissembled. Sherlock sagged, a relieved exhale expelling out of him. He grabbed the back of John’s head and pressed kisses all over that wonderful, beautiful face. 

“Why the hell didn’t you say so before?” Sherlock asked. “I’ve been going mad wondering why you’ve never mentioned it.”

John’s face scrunched up in apology.

“I didn’t want to put you on the spot and say the wrong thing. I thought treating it like it was any sort of big deal would make you uncomfortable. I’m sorry.”

“No, no. It’s fine. It’s more than fine. So you don’t have a problem with this at all?”

“No, of course not. Wear whatever you want. I was just surprised because I’d never seen you in anything that wasn’t suits or pajamas, unless you were in disguise. And even then it’s never been anything feminine.”

“It just hasn’t come up since I’ve known you. Not until that day. It comes in phases. Sometimes I feel like wearing something and sometimes I don’t. And it was so bloody hot. Women’s clothing. Men’s clothing. It doesn’t mean anything to me. It’s so damn arbitrary.”

John nodded.

“You’re right. It really is all just clothing. Gender shouldn’t have anything to do with what you wear.”

Sherlock hesitated a second, tongue frozen in his mouth before he blurted out,

“I don’t know if I have one of those.”

John frowned, confused.

“One of what?”

“A gender. I don’t really understand what it means. ‘He’ pronouns don’t feel wrong, really, and being referred to as a man isn’t terrible, but it also doesn’t feel accurate. All this performative masculinity has always felt like rubbish, not that that has anything to do with anything. It is rubbish. But it’s confusing, all of it. You seem to know your gender. It’s not supposed to be confusing, is it?”

John’s frown remained unchanged. He shook his head.

“I don’t think so, no. I’ve never had reason to doubt it myself. So you think you’re non-binary, then?”

“I think so. Yes. It’s the only category that makes any sense. I’ve never really bothered much about it, but the subject keeps coming up these days and I don’t feel what people keep going on about. So I’ll just call myself agender and be done with it.”

“Okay.” 

John stroked his cheek, his thumb so gentle, so loving despite the confusing revelation that Sherlock had just thrown at him. It was there in the corner of his eyes. The rapid processing of this new information about his partner. Why Sherlock had insisted on “partner” instead of “boyfriend”. How he should be thinking of Sherlock now in relation to the world around them. He would need some time to absorb it all. 

“You want to see me with the dress on?” Sherlock asked, voice trembling a bit.

John smiled, supportive as always, even when he didn’t quite understand.

“Of course,” he said. “Go on.”

Grinning, Sherlock rushed to his bedroom and shut the door. Sherlock jumped in the air and clapped his hands

“Brilliant,” he whispered so that John wouldn’t hear. “Oh, this is perfect.”

He changed as swiftly as he could and admired himself in the full length mirror hanging on his wardrobe door. The dress fit him perfectly. Sapphire blue satin hugged his body, the fabric formed to make it look like it was wrapped around him, the upper layer ending at his left side and falling to his right foot in a diagonal, showing a hint of his shin. The fabric was scalloped at his chest just the slightest bit to give the appearance of what he didn’t have. His shoulders and arms were too big for the strapless design, but Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft had told him that it didn’t matter. Mycroft had added that he had the hair to pull it off, a rare admission that he was envious of Sherlock for getting the good hair genes while his own hairline quickly receded. Although Sherlock’s own was starting to get inroads.

Never mind now. It was time to let John see. Muscles thrumming with anticipation, he opened the door and went out into the sitting room. John was on the sofa scrolling through his phone. He put it down as soon as Sherlock walked in, eyes and mouth widening as his gaze swept up and down Sherlock’s body. Sherlock fought not to bounce on his feet. He didn’t want to look nervous. And he wasn’t really nervous, not anymore, yet there was still some treacherous apprehension shaking his fingers before an awed smile lit up John’s face. Oh, thank God. 

“You look amazing,” John breathed.

Sherlock rubbed his hands together, grinning with glee, and did a twirl. The look on John’s face was one of the greatest things he’d ever seen. 

“I had it tailor made. Well, Mycroft did. His birthday present. He usually buys me a suit, but I wanted a little variety that year.”

“A tailored dress? God, do I even want to know how much it cost? Your suits are intimidating enough.”

Sherlock frowned.

“Intimidating?”

His brow immediately smoothed out again as John placed his hands on Sherlock’s waist, pressing softly to feel the fabric on his skin. Sherlock wrapped his arms around his shoulders, seized by the urge to hug him close and feel his body pressed all along his own. He did just that, resting his face atop John’s head. John chuckled.

“Just,” he said, “they’re expensive and elegant. I feel a little frumpy next to you in jeans and jumpers.”

“Frumpy? You honestly think I would deign to be seen in public with someone frumpy?”

John laughed again, rubbing his face against Sherlock’s shoulder. 

“I guess not.”

“Your jumpers become you very well. As do your striped shirts. I’m very fond of those. You look adorable in them.”

“Adorable? I can live with that.”

Sherlock luxuriated in the gown for the next hour, allowing John to shower him with more compliments, each of them tickling Sherlock’s spine with happiness. At one point, John put on a waltz on his phone and held out his hand. Sherlock took it, falling eagerly into his embrace. John completely botched the steps, but Sherlock didn’t care. John was here in his arms, supportive and caring and wonderful. How could Sherlock have ever doubted that one little dress would have dulled his love for him? Their foreheads pressed together naturally as their steps slowed, perfectly in sync. They always would be.


End file.
